


Wrong

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bathtubs, Castiel/Dean Winchester Break Up, Castiel/Dean Winchester Feels, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, I did tag is with their relationship given that's all of Dean's angst in this fic, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, and not the fic, though that one is in canon basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean tries to numb himself after Castiel leaves, but it still hurts.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea this story wanted to come out of me, but I guess my real-life angst mixed with _Supernatural_ and this new song by Ruelle called "Skin and Bones" and now there's this.
> 
> The song lyrics that really got me thinking about Dean and Castiel were:
> 
> _Everything you touched I loved_   
>  _Even though it left me numb_   
>  _Eyes are closed tight_   
>  _Still I only see your face_
> 
> _You're taking me down, taking me down_   
>  _To skin and bones_   
>  _You're taking me down, taking me down_   
>  _To skin and bones_
> 
> _No heartbeat left in me_   
>  _There is no air here left to breathe_   
>  _And all I know is when your love goes_   
>  _I'm just skin and bones_

Dean drank after Castiel left. It was the only thing he knew to do. Hell, he wanted to fill the bathtub in the bunker bathroom up with alcohol and settle himself in. The thought was too ambitious, so he settled for lying in the hot water, countless bottles of beer all ready for him to grab, some already empty.

Maybe God was gone like Sam had said. But it didn’t matter, because so was Cas.

“ _The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong._ ”

“ _Yeah, why does that thing always seem to be you?_ ”

Alcohol buzzing in him, body becoming sluggish, he told himself he hadn’t meant to say that. But he had.

He just hadn’t thought Cas would actually _leave_.

But here Dean was, in the bunker, empty, and no Cas.

No Mary, no Jack, either.

Nothing but emptiness.

He took a long pull from his beer, and then decided to finish it off. Dean let it clatter to the tiles beside the bathtub when he finished with it, enjoying the burn in his throat and the numbness in his head. More. God, he needed more.

“ _You used to trust me, give me the benefit of the doubt. Now you can barely look at me._ ”

Fuck, he had to forget about him, even for just a few seconds.

“ _I’m… dead to you._ ”

Dead. Cas had been dead before. Even now he pictured his body, lying out in the sand before him, wings spread, no chance of getting back up, of coming back to him.

But he had.

And there he was in his head again, being blown up by Lucifer, or walking into a lake that he didn’t come out of.

No free will, no agency, just death. Quick and sudden and startling.

But here he’d walked out. He’d turned his back, dark hair and coat retreating before him. And then the metal door had closed.

“ _I think it’s time for me to move on._ ”

Tears were tracking down Dean’s face, and he opened up another bottle, tilting his head back and drinking. His movements were sloppy, and some of it spilled over his face, past his lips, down his chin.

Move on. Fucking move on. How could he?

The thought of even trying stabbed him through the chest. And he had tried. Tried to not look at him, tried to punish, tried to… tried to show that he was hurt.

And it had been too much.

It’d been too fucking much.

_God, I’m an asshole._

Dean shifted in the tub, sinking lower in the now-cooling water. His fingers were pruning. But at least he could still grab beer. That’s what mattered.

Why couldn’t things just be like they had been? No deaths to blame anyone for, no idea that he was just a stupid little puppet being pulled by Chuck’s strings. Was this Chuck too? This pain, this stabbing and ripping he felt in his chest as he saw Castiel in his head. In his head his angel held him, he kept him firm and steady and safe. He was there, maybe… maybe Dean had clung too tightly, hurting.

Even now he wanted to have him here to hold, by the bathtub with him. Rage filled his belly as his hands remembered the feel of Castiel’s stubble against his palms. And skin. Never enough skin. His eyes, his hands, they’d always wanted more with Cas. _He_ had always wanted more.

But now the thought of touching him made him clench his jaw, Vision blurring, he yelled, throwing his beer across the room. It shattered on the tile, and he grabbed another to do the same. His hand shook, strength faltering. Dean hung his head, cradling the bottle to his chest, not caring that it was in the soapy water with him. At least it was there, at least it was something.

After opening it, he continued to drink.

“ _You asked, ‘What about all of this is real?’ We are._ ”

_We are, we are, we are…_

“Bullshit,” Dean mumbled. A sob shook his shoulders, but in his attempt to hold his voice back, it came out as a choked laugh. “Bullshit!” Lifting his hand up, he put a middle finger towards the ceiling, towards fucking Heaven, and the son of a bitch, God.

Dean felt himself sinking more and more into a drunken stupor, and he couldn’t make much sense of where the rest of his beer was, or how to get out of the tub, so after some clumsy grabs, glass clinking as bottles were knocked over and rolled, he tilted his head back.

“If we were real, you wouldn’t’ve left.”

_If we were real I wouldn’t hate you so much._

Dean did hate him. He wanted to slam him against a wall, the floor, and hurt him. Make him see, make him realize. How couldn’t he see what all this was? Cas had hurt him. He’d fucking hurt him. He hadn’t… The plan…

It’d all fallen apart.

Everything always fell apart.

And it was Cas.

It was Cas, it was Cas, it was Cas.

Wasn’t it?

But god, it was Dean too.

Not listening, yelling, just hurting and hurting, and wanting to hate.

And he did hate.

He splashed at the water, forming a wave that jumped over the lip of the bathtub. The bit of resistance slamming against his hand was satisfying for only a second, before he felt the urge to do it again, and then he was grabbing at it, at something that he couldn’t possibly grasp. The water trickled through his fingers, and Dean watched the drops plop down into the tub, little bubbles forming as it mixed with soap.

_I don’t even want to hate him,_ Dean thought. _Means I’m still fucking_ feeling _._

And to hate him, that meant he’d… that meant there’d been something else, something more.

“ _We are._ ”

They had been.

For years, they had been. The two of them fighting the good fight together.

Dean dozed off, neck aching as it lay against the cold tile, goosebumps rising up on his skin.

Someone had come to him, knelt by the bathtub, holding his hand, brushing his hair back from his face.

And Dean opened his eyes, too weak to do anything, as he looked into Castiel’s grim face. There was heartbreak there, but not hate. Never hate.

“‘M sorry,” Dean mumbled out.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he wasn’t.

Castiel was foggy in his vision, and he closed his eyes again, groaning as he shifted. There was that hand holding his, so strong, yet so unsure. And then it moved, over his bare chest, fingers slow. Dean grasped at his wrist, but he didn’t let go as the hand burned into his heart. He let it.

“Are we real?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s hand pressed into his chest now, fingers digging through flesh, and Dean pulled him closer.

“Please. Are we real?” he gasped, tears in his eyes.

The hand plunged through him, and Dean’s body went limp, his head drifting back. And all he saw was Castiel’s said face, and then the now-bloodied hand. His lips brushed against his ever so gently, but then he was gone, pulling away. He tried to reach out, to grasp, to hold, to keep, but his arm couldn’t rise, and water fell through his empty fingers.

When Dean came back to his senses, he was curled up in the bathtub, had splashed most of the water out onto the floor, and was shivering fiercely. His body ached, but his numbed mind told him it was of no consequence.

Dean put a hand to his chest, where Castiel’s had been, the pain so real.

And there was nothing there.

Dean huffed out a sad laugh, rubbing at his bare skin, wanting it to be bloodied by the angel’s hand.

“Guess we’re not,” he responded, answering the question from his dream.

Dean leaned forward and started filling up the bathtub with hot water again. He grit his teeth as he opened another beer, telling himself he wouldn’t let anyone see him like this.

Not even Cas.

Cas was gone.

They weren’t real.

Maybe they never had been.

And that’s why he drank.

Somewhere up there, perhaps God was looking down at him, grinning, happy with himself for this new pain. He probably even had a front row seat at his Winchester movie theater, eating popcorn, slurping on soda. Must’ve had one hell of a view.

Dean wouldn’t mind that seat. A place to watch his own fall into despair. Just about as self-pitying and self-loathing as you could get. And maybe there he’d see… see…

He didn’t know.

Maybe he’d see what had gone wrong.

“ _Something always goes wrong._ ”

_Yeah, why does that thing always seem to be me?_


End file.
